


Pepi, with all due respect, what the fuck

by disoriented_writing



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/F, Julian is only mentioned, and portia is thirsty, cat scratches! but not in detail, pepi is a good girl but sometimes she's not, portia bakes thanks, theres a fair amount of cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disoriented_writing/pseuds/disoriented_writing
Summary: Holy Moses Portia, be respectfulOr, Pepi is accidentally a little shit, and Portia's gonna die of heart failure.





	Pepi, with all due respect, what the fuck

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: "I'm sorry my cat ran away and scratched your back while you were showering and holy moly please put on a shirt because I cant function if i keep seeing those abs"
> 
> This is for my lovely friend Bat! I hope you enjoy it, babe! I certainly had a fun time writing it!

The knock comes when Portia's in the middle of shoving a fresh batch of double-chocolate-chip-double-mint cookies in the oven. She nearly knocks over her plant in her haste to get her oven mitts off and rush to the door before whoever waits on the other side gets impatient and leaves.

It could be the postman — that rat bastard _never_ waits long enough for her to answer the door, and then her package is either not delivered (which means she'll have to wait another _week_ for Pepi's new toys to come in, _again_ ) or is left in the most... um. ‘Inconspicuous’ places. Like under her doormat. Yeah, _nobody's_ gonna fucking see _t_ _hat_ , no _sir_ — fool-proof plan you’ve got there!

Except, when she opens her door, it's most definitely _not_ the postman. 

It's her really hot, super cool neighbor, Nadia Satrinava. In nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a sport's bra, half dripping with — _something_ , maybe sweat, probably water. Portia's brain keeps short-circuiting because — _two, four, six of them, good god_ . Abs, she means — there's a _lot_ , and the golden light from her hallway is bouncing against the water dripping into the line of her sweatpants, which is _unfairly_ aesthetic and frankly almost _sinful_ —

"Is this the residence of one 'Portia Devorak'?" Miss Satrinava asks, mostly deadpan, but there's a little hint of a smirk in her mouth. Oh, dear. She caught Portia staring, then. Portia also gets the feeling she already knows she has the right house, and she's gotta swallow around the saliva suddenly gathering at the back of her mouth.

"Um — yes, it is! What's — um, I — I mean, is something —"

"Is this your cat?" Miss Satrinava asks, gesturing to the — yes, the fucking _cat_ squirming in her arms. Portia had been spending too much time choking over the — _yep, six_ — abs to _notice_ —

"Um — yes, actually! I'm sorry, was Pepi bothering you?" Portia asks, and puts her hands on her hips to give said kitty a proper glare. "She's an indoor-outdoor cat, and I love her, but she has a tendency of causing trouble. I think another neighbor is feeding her, too, which she most definitely does _not need_ , the miss is gonna _gorge_ until she makes herself sick again —"

"She was not so much a... bother, no," Miss Satrinava interrupts, and at least she looks a little amused, now, rather than deadpan and silent. "She somehow found herself in my bathroom."

"Oh!" Portia squeaks, and then flushes red. She’s in _so_ much fucking trouble. "I'm _so sorry_! I can't believe she'd be so —"

"It's probably my fault," she interrupts, firm but gentle, and Portia's mouth snaps shut instinctively. Christ. "I was not paying close enough attention while entering my home, I think."

"Ah — well, it's alright. I'll still be sure Pepi gets no treats tonight, though, no _ma'am_ ," Portia mutters, leaning forward to scoop the cat out of her waiting arms. "What a _troublemaker_!"

"A troublemaker, indeed," she agrees, and her smile nearly knocks Portia off her feet. "Though an unintended one, I think. I'm sure she didn't _mean_ to fall into my shower whilst I was bathing."

Portia's heart sinks in direct proportion to the widening of her eyes. "Oh, tell me she didn't — is _that_ why you're — oh. Um. Not — dry?"

"Yes, I thought it best to deliver her home before attempting to finish my bath." Miss Satrinava says, and folds her hands neatly in front of her. Portia tries not to stare at the biceps glistening in what she knows is water, now. Does she smell lavender —? She should probably definitely _not_ sniff the air, that'd be _so weird_ —

"I am — _so sorry,_ " she tells her fervently, and grimaces. "You didn't — she didn't happen to —"

"Injure me?" She provides, and Portia grimaces harder at the knowing glint in her eye. "Unfortunately, she did. That would be the explanation for my — improper dress, as you were. I thought it best not to disrupt the scratches any more than absolutely necessary."

"I'm _triple sorry_ ," she says, and glares at Pepi, who just meows innocently like the lying little minx she is. "I can't believe she'd — well. Actually, I _can_ believe she'd sneak into your home, but I'd never expect her to claw you up. That's just _rude_ , Pepi! Absolutely _not_ how you make friends!"

Pepi meows again, and Miss Satrinava chuckles a little wryly. Portia's heart is gonna fail on her, at this rate. She’s gonna have a fucking _stroke_. 

"Well — if you'd like to make it up to me, I require some help with patching up. The scratches are just a little too high for my arms to reach," Miss Satrinava suggests. Portia might be dreaming (definitely a possibility — she's hot enough it feels like she's got a fever — she always gets the _strangest_ dreams when she's sick) but when she leans forward to continue, her tone is almost definitely at least a _little_ more sultry, and a bit conspiratorial, and Portia is _absolutely_ gonna need to go to the hospital by tonight’s end — "No matter how flexible I might be, there are some feats I simply cannot do."

"U-Understandable," Portia stutters, and swallows around the sudden dryness in her mouth. _Focus_ , Portia — your dumb monkey brain _is_ capable of forming intelligent and coherent thoughts beyond _girl hot_ , god dammit! "Well — I think I have a first aid kit, if you'd like to come in?"

"I'd be delighted," Miss Satrinava says, and Portia steps back to let her saunter in, graceful and lithe and _Holy Moses Portia don't stare at her ass, be polite, be respectful_ — "Your apartment is lovely. Very… homey. Cozy.”

"Oh!" Portia snaps her mouth shut and closes the door as Miss Satrinava wanders through the hallway, hands still folded politely in front of her. "Thank you! I like it, too. Reminds me of a cottage my brother and I went to once — though, I like to think this is nicer. At least this place doesn't have a dungeon in the basement."

"A dungeon?" Miss Satrinava asks over her shoulder, and Portia can see the scratches, now. They don't look bad, or anything, but given Pepi's tendency to walk around outside, they should definitely get cleaned and bandaged. "That sounds interesting, to say the least."

"Oh, it was!" Portia chirps, bustling into the living room and directing Miss Satrinava onto the couch. She perches on it like a goddess, or an angel — someone holy and unattainable. "The man that lived there _probably_ wasn’t a serial killer, but it definitely _looked_ like it — poor Ilya nearly shat himself when I made him go down with me. The man sure can be such a coward sometimes, I swear. Safe adventure is _boring_ , thanks."

"I see," Miss Satrinava says, and she still sounds amused, thank god, because Portia wouldn't know what to do if she was upset. She can feel her staring, too, watching her go about the kitchen looking for the first aid kit she knows she still has, because Ilya's a worrywart on the best of days, and an overbearing idiot on the worst of them. 

"Just a moment, I think it's — oh, yes, here it is!" She exclaims, raising it up victoriously. Then, more to herself than to the goddess sitting on her couch. "I don't think this one has leeches. I hope it doesn't."

"Leeches?" She asks, and Portia has to remember how to breathe, because she's leaning forward (to keep her scratches away from the fabric, probably, but macaroni and rice it's nearly sinful) looking at her in open amusement. Humoring and indulgent. Portia doesn’t know what to do with that! So she just swallows, and brings the kit over, setting it on the coffee table.

"Yeah, leeches. My brother's obsessed with them," Portia rolls her eyes, and it earns her another breath-taking smile. "He thinks they have special properties, or something. _I_ think it's a bunch of bologna. It seems silly to try to treat cat scratches with leeches, anyway."

"But certainly an interesting experience, no?" Miss Satrinava asks, and — yeah, her eyes are definitely half-lidded, and — yeah, Portia's heart is definitely in her throat. 

She pops the lid of the first aid kit open and thanks whatever deity presides over this corner of the globe that she doesn't drop the sterilizing pads. 

"Oh, definitely interesting, but totally unsafe." She says, trying to keep the conversation flowing over her heated cheeks and wandering eyes.

"I thought your favorite adventures were the dangerous ones?" Miss Satrinava asks, and she's — is she _teasing_ her? Is Portia really getting ragged on by her hot neighbor? Is this her life now? She might as well perish. God, Ilya's never gonna let her live it down — "Oh, please do close your mouth, darling, you'll catch flies that way. I didn't mean to shock you so badly."

"Oh! Oh — not at all, sorry, I —" she shakes her head, and mentally slaps herself, and fixes her eyes squarely on the little sanitation pad in her fingers, ripping the packaging open and pulling the little square out. "Could you — turn the other way, so that I can get to the scratches?"

"Of course," Miss Satrinava says eloquently; she sounds really fucking eloquent in comparison to Portia, that's for damn sure. "I'll remove my bra, as well. That should make it easier to clean and dress them, yes?"

"Ah —" Portia definitely did not sign up for this. No, ma'am — she used to be a suave woman. She was a flirt, once upon a time. Could woo the panties off a queen, probably — except the only queen is sitting in front of her, already carefully tugging her sport's bra off, exposing a mass of tanned skin and rippling muscles and Portia has _so got to get her shit together, Christ on a cracker_ — "Y-Yeah, that should help. Thanks."

"Not at all," Miss Satrinava says, and her voice sounds like sin. She has the kindness of a saint, not to tease Portia for the way her voice just cracked like a teenager getting smacked with the trash truck that is puberty.

Portia takes a deep breath, and prays to any god that might be listening to give her strength enough to survive this.

(She probably will, but it’ll certainly be at the price of her sanity, at the very least.)

(And, if she’s very, very lucky, her heart, as well.)


End file.
